The Bard of Tysoe

“Beautiful writing. Each word pulls you towards the next in effortless momentum. Very much enjoy your work.”
— Mark Peter Beeson
“I love your blog! You write so beautifully.”
— Oliver Ryan

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Monday, 28 April 2014

Power to the people…

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I have already suggested how the residents of Tysoe could make concrete the sustainability we place at the heart of our response to...

Sunday, 20 April 2014

My submission to the Planning Inspectorate…

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I know that others are capable of addressing this inquiry more objectively . This, however, is a personal statement: that is, therefore, s...

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Sweet, sweet, sweet…!

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In the three years we’ve lived here, we’ve seen many, many different birds come and go – from tits and sparrows, to starlings and red...

Friday, 11 April 2014

Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow…

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There were many moments in last night’s performance of Henry IV, part II that will stick with me for a very long time: but two of them are...

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire…?

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Although now fashionable – and popular – Henry IV, part I (on at the RSC, in Stratford-upon-Avon, until 6 September 2014) has always seeme...

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EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE BARD BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK:

The Bard of Tysoe: Copeland, Cumbria, United Kingdom; Originally an amateur musician… — yet having worked in IT and marketing communication for a quarter of a century — both as manager and consultant; as well as writing for the Guardian… — the Bard retired for medical reasons; and now devotes his life to keeping as healthy as possible by putting one foot in front of another (badly, but semi-frequently); watching the world, with all its vagaries, go by (in great puzzlement); capturing what he sees (in words and pictures); and trying to leave a trail of happiness in his wake. What matters most to him are beauty, truth, cats, and fairness — in whatever myriad forms they occur — and he despises inequality, greed, fascists, and hate. His favourite occupation is thinking; and he was (therefore) — for a handful of years — the Orchestra of the Swan’s ‘writer in reticence’. You are now, though, most likely to encounter him staring into space, with a thoughtful grin beneath his wonted hat and dark glasses, walking stick in hand, somewhere in the quieter parts of the Northern, North Western, and Western Fells of Lakeland. (He resembles nothing so much as a badly-dressed Herdwick.)

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